


The Dandelion King

by what_about_the_fish



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Battle, Character Death, Gen, Love, M/M, Story within a Story, Time Skips, War, author picks and chooses from canon, canon i don't know her, sprinkles canon in like glitter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:28:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25203199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_about_the_fish/pseuds/what_about_the_fish
Summary: Please take a seat for I have a tale to tell of a man, a humble bard who became a legend. You will have surely heard this one, the legend of The Dandelion King.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 21
Kudos: 50
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #004





	The Dandelion King

_What makes a legend? This is a question posed by many a bard on their journey to fame, for there must be a story behind each and every legend. One doesn’t merely explode into existence a legend, nor does one moment a legend make. Legends are designed, sculpted with skilled hands and talented tongues until one day their roots are planted deep into the earth and left to grow on their own._

_Each new telling, each passage of the tale from one man to another, its branches stretch wide and far. Each city limit passed, the shoots begin to spring, green and vibrant, until it blooms, it’s perfume takes ahold and every child will sing of it’s scent._

_Sometimes a legend finds you when you are halfway through a life, when the songs you sing for a man found their own way into the earth, planted their own roots deep. And when you least expect it an ancient tree stands before you and all you can do is climb to the very top branch and behold what you have created._

_And then there are those legends that spring up over the grave of a hard life, lived with love._

This is the story of one of those legends. Please take a seat for I have a tale to tell of a man, a humble bard who became a legend. You will have surely heard this one, the legend of The Dandelion King.

There are people who will tell this story differently, but I think you will find that this here is the only true retelling. For I was there, it was I who travelled with him, who loved him and it was I who buried him.

It’s funny how history twists a tale, how time picks and chooses the characters and roles until the end result sits so far adjacent to what actually occurred that it’s barely even a shadow of its original source. I find myself wanting to put things to rights, to redirect the storylines. Not that it matters to anyone now, all the characters are long buried and I find myself the only one left alive.

It’s as my own story is beginning to fade that I want to use my last breaths telling you this. I apologise if this story meanders from time to time, it’s hard to get a grip on order when you’ve lived as long as I have. For what it’s worth I know Jaskier would be pleased that it’s a collector, such as yourself who will record my words. You may do with them what you will.

Our early years are immortalised, it would seem, in song and story (until Cirilla entered my life) history has preserved those years well. He was a bard, Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, better known as Jaskier; my friend and lover. Perhaps that second point was not recorded, but times have changed and I think you will be able to understand without judgement now.

I travelled with him through the continent, saving his damn life more oft than nought; but mostly we were companions. He made songs of my monster kills, gave all Witcher’s a great gift with his tales. And however misleading those songs may have been, he never lied with malice. I find myself not wanting to go into detail over the faults in his songs. They were his stories and I have no place changing those, not when they have survived so long.

No, I think my story begins with Cirilla. My child surprise, although she was never just mine. She was _ours_. Cirilla went from being the heir to the throne of Cintra to an orphan running for her life - until she ran into my arms. I gave her everything I had, and that included a family.

I took her to my home, Kaer Morhen. They get that right in the tales, it was a ruin, the last stronghold of the Wolf Witcher’s and sanctuary to those who needed. Ciri was so small, she felt so fragile in my hands. We were all so scared to hurt her, these big Witcher’s, hands scared and calloused, looking after a girl. My brothers, Eskel and Lambert, our father Vesemir, we all treated her like glass, confounded as to what to do for her.

Those first few weeks I felt adrift and it was for more reasons than the sudden weight of destiny.

I had been angry, you see. Jaskier and I - no - it was just me. I fought with him, dumped all of my stupid pain and worry onto him and sent him away. It had been months since I'd seen him, and I found without him by my side I was lost. The only thing keeping me going in those weeks was Ciri, not even my brothers could help.

It soon became clear that Ciri would need training. She had power - a Source - we were informed later. She held Elder blood within her human body and was to become a powerful sorceress. We all knew the smell of destiny, and it hung around that child in clouds. 

We could think of nothing to do with the child but train her as we had trained witcher’s, however we needed help with her magic. It was then that we called two of the most powerful sorceresses we knew.

I’m ashamed to say I had ulterior motives when we called Triss Merigold and Yennifer of Vengerberg to Kaer Morhen. I needed to find Jaskier, and bring him home. This wasn’t something I could do without him, and whatever punishment I must take to attone, I was willing. If only to see my love again.

I won’t bore you with the details - sorceress does magic, bard appears. What matters is Jaskier came back, he forgave me and between us all we raised the most powerful woman to ever live. 

Those early years, I could fill many a book with our stories. I’m not sure they would interest anyone, it would be mostly me trying to find the words to describe the way he loved, the way he lived each and every day to its fullest. How he fought for what was right and just no matter if it meant fighting the big dangerous guy with too many knives and too few teeth. Jaskier took on the world with a force I've never seen before nor since.

I’d fill one book with the way I loved him. A chapter on our handfasting, surrounded by our family. The way Ciri wept using her skirts to wipe her eyes, how the damned man almost put his back out insisting on carrying me over the threshold of our room. A chapter on his strong legs, and arms that could wrap around me and block out the world. How safe he made me feel.

Jaskier would be swearing to high heaven right about now, _“Where were these flowery words when I was alive, Geralt!”_ I try not to linger on regrets. I know in my heart he knew how much he was loved. 

These were the things Jaskier, _my_ Dandelion, should be remembered for. 

Women are so often erased from history, it wasn’t Jaskier who was king, King Dandelion of legend never existed. It was Queen Cirilla who was forgotten. It’s funny to me, because Jaskier, he laid down his life for Ciri. It was always for her, everything he did. And so he died for her too. But I jump ahead. Jaskier would be most upset at how he was elevated to legend when our daughter was left behind.

Jaskier was the bravest man I ever met, he had a fiercer heart than any other, witcher or human. He’d have said, _“it’s just another war, Geralt, Nothing we haven't done before.”_ He was correct of course, except, for him it would be his last. For me… I think a large part of myself died along with him, was buried in that fertile earth. 

Forgive me if I become melancholy. My heart was split on that battlefield, and given the centuries that have passed, with everyone I've ever loved now gone, you must understand I sit before you a hollow man.

Most of what they attribute to Dandelion in the legends can be shared between two women; Ciri and Yennifer. Some of the facts are true, he was a spy, he brought down kings and whole armies behind the guise of bard. However, the power, that which drove us all to do as we did, to bring those armies to heel, all of that should be rewritten in Ciri and Yen’s name.

The battle of Sodden for example, Jaskier wasn’t even there. Yennifer, Triss and a host of Mages took that victory. Yen almost lost her own battle that day. It wasn’t Dandelion who kissed a princess and brought her back from the dead. Ciri saved myself and Yen, I don’t think we ever worked out how, certainly it was not a kiss.

I don’t tell this story to take away from Jaskier’s legacy, to be sure he would rather this was what he was remembered for. In life he was proud of his reputation, he cared about how he looked, how he was seen, he had a flair for the dramatic, but at his heart he was selfless to a flaw. That should be his legacy.

The battle, his last, and I suppose where the legend began; was not on some foreign battlefield but at home. When the Wild Hunt descended we were ready. Ciri, Jaskier and myself took lead of the middle flank, Eskel and Triss took the left, Lambert and Vesemir the right. Behind us all was Yennifer casting her chaos where she was needed. 

Ciri was fighting side by side with Jaskier, the mud of the battlefield covered their ankles, the stench of death and blood and shit was thick in the air. We were winning, it was almost over and you could feel the energy of the battle turn. Men were fleeing as our forces took more and more ground. 

I’d been split up from them some hours before, it’s the way of battle, when you see nothing more than the sword in front of you. When I had a chance to look I could see them both on the front line. I could tell Ciri was fatigued, her magic was getting spotty, erratic, and Jaskier - he wore pain upon his face - my heart fell in that moment.

Ciri fell to her knees, her sword stuck in the corpse of a Red Rider. Her magic had left her, burnt out completely. I watched what unfolded in slow motion, as one of the Hunt drew their sword above her head, I screamed for Yen, for Triss, for anyone to help, but no one was close enough, we were all too drained.

Only Jaskier was there. His eyes somehow found mine in that moment, his face, the words mouthed across the battle will be etched on my soul until my dying day. He did the only thing left to him. My Dandelion thrust our daughter out of the mud, spun to face me and met that sword blow with nothing but love in his heart and my name on his tongue.

I think my world splintered in that moment, surely a great chasm was wrought in my heart, my soul. I watched as Yen drew a portal and pulled Ciri back, saw the distress on her face, heard her cries as Yen’s strong grip pulled her away from Jaskier’s body and to safety.

The details of the battle can be found in the legends you hear now, those remain the same. Please, if you wish to document this story later, fill in the holes. I fear I don’t have the stomach to talk of the battle any longer. 

The only part of this legend I wish to set to rights now is that lasting image. When King Dandelion casts his sword into the battlefields and declares all lands free of the scourge, that no man be enslaved again. When he rests his crown around the hilt and gives the continent to the people.

The image is true, Ciri drove her sword into Jaskier’s grave, lay her crown on the hilt. There was a declaration, a promise. But those words were for us, for family. I won’t share them now. 

It was Queen Cirilla who brought freedom to our continent. It was a council led by Ciri, Yen and Triss who brought about the council of men you now know. You owe your life, here, of safety and privilege to these women. Dandelion was the one who saved her life, the bravest man I ever met. He was no king, but he was a part of the legend.

I hope I have not bored you with this tale, take it dear collector and plant it somewhere with fertile soil so it may bloom in it’s true form.

My name? 

It hardly matters anymore, but for the sake of the story I’ll tell you. I am Geralt of Rivia, I’m a Witcher, the last of my kind. Yes, the one of legend, the White Wolf. But please, if you must remember me, remember me as Jaskier’s husband and Cirilla’s father because those are the greatest things I ever contributed to this world, I wish for them to be my legacy.


End file.
